this week at the boys school it's ugandan cultural week. the kids are learning about what it means to be ugandan. they are supposed to wear ugandan clothes or colors, interview ugandan adults and learn facts about uganda. jude came home feeling jipped because he's only been here for 6 weeks and so he doesn't know that much about it. "but mommy, some of the kids have been here for years! they know everything about uganda!"
it's a funny thing- culture. who you are in one place is not exactly who you are in another place- or how you are perceived in one culture can be very different than another cultures perception of you- despite the same voice, haircut, outfit.
i remember distinctly my cultural identity crisis while living in costa rica for 5 months. i showed up with my 1990's short haircut, willowy short skirts, skinny legs and clunky black doc martins. and despite being with mostly americans in my exchange program, i quickly became aware that my new england identity was absolutely not "tican". and after a few weeks- i knew i didn't fit in. but what was surprising, was that i cared. i really cared. i wanted my hair to grow and to gain some weight and to buy tapered jeans with zippers. i wanted to look good in costa rican terms.
let me pause because identity has time boundaries. i mean when you visit somewhere- your identity there is as a visitor. the clothes brought tend to be functional, the shoes comfortable, the choices practical. your identity remains firmly, in your own culture, which for me is as an american. and even if i try to 'fit in' or to not appear as a tourist, i'm okay with it.
moving to uganda was another opportunity for a cultural identity crisis. when we packed up to move, i was admittedly very practical in what i brought. i remembered the unpaved roads, the lack of sidewalks, the rain and the dust. i remembered being hot, but also needing to think about culturally appropriate summer wear- ie: not running around in short cut-offs. i paused to think about how american women are often perceived in non-western cultures. i even paused to consider my title- "missionary"- which connotes long dresses or skirts, button down blouses (all hand-me-downs of course), no make up, hair in a bun. i went through my closet and i purged. and i wrote about it- parting with items of identity- the faux-fur vest, the silvery velvet plush cropped jacket, a chocolate brown twist dress, tall black boots, a miniskirt. little pieces of glam that i loved to wear. i didn't go out and buy new stuff, i didn't search for missionary-esque hand-me-downs, but i did try to pack wisely, non-ostentatiously, thoughtfully.
2 weeks after landing in uganda, i felt that feeling again. that cultural identity crisis. we were driving into town and i was looking around at my new 'home', my new where-abouts and i was seeing that ugandan's like to look good. they like to dress up; hair done, heels on and they like things that sparkle. even on sidewalk-less dirt roads they look good- even with no electricity they look good. i was going to town in my jeans and flip-flops, hair thrown up in a bun. not only that, but as i caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, i saw sun spots and wrinkles and some gray hair. i was feeling old and like i'd let myself go. i was feeling like 40 had caught up with me. and i wasn't liking any of it. so i re- assembled my hairdo in the side mirror and fished around in my bag and applied the 'rich red' lip gloss my sister had given me before we moved and thought about the cutest outfit i could put together with the clothes i'd brought.
then i shared my sentiments with mike- more in a monologue than a conversation- but still, i'd expressed how i was feeling.
i think mike, who was driving, responded with "you look great." or "i don't know what you're talking about" after a quick glance my way. then a moment later he looked back at me. "did you drink some juice? i think you have some pinkish orangish stuff on your mouth."
now guys- if your 40 year old wife tells you she feels like she's not all that- if she is feeling like she's reached the peak and is now on the other side- it's time for massive affirmation. it's time to pull out the stops and even if you have to, lie to her, just do it. don't mistake her lip gloss for a juice spill.
by the time we got home i needed to talk about all this- about this more superficial side of our move. i was frustrated by my self limited wardrobe options, and my lack of ability to either be just who i am or to really think about how most people dress in the capital cities of most of the world, and not be so worried about it.
but the other part of all this was a sudden awareness - that nobody really cares. nobody is looking. nobody is noticing what the heck i have on, or whether i'm wearing lipstick or drank an orange juice sloppily. here i'm a distinct minority-i belong to a bizarrely invisible - but completely non-anonymous group. i am a muzungu. i stand out - just because of my pale skin. i get stared at because i'm so obviously a foreigner.
so i'm finding that place of identity again. i'm an american who has moved to uganda
today it was cool after a night of rain and i abandoned my flip flops, dug in the back of my closet and found my silver scaled mermaid wedge heels that had yet to experience the red dirt. i grabbed my '60's retro 3/4 length sleeve jacket and an over-sized pageboy hat, reapplied the lip gloss and headed out the door- feeling much more like me.
it's a funny thing- culture. who you are in one place is not exactly who you are in another place- or how you are perceived in one culture can be very different than another cultures perception of you- despite the same voice, haircut, outfit.
i remember distinctly my cultural identity crisis while living in costa rica for 5 months. i showed up with my 1990's short haircut, willowy short skirts, skinny legs and clunky black doc martins. and despite being with mostly americans in my exchange program, i quickly became aware that my new england identity was absolutely not "tican". and after a few weeks- i knew i didn't fit in. but what was surprising, was that i cared. i really cared. i wanted my hair to grow and to gain some weight and to buy tapered jeans with zippers. i wanted to look good in costa rican terms.
let me pause because identity has time boundaries. i mean when you visit somewhere- your identity there is as a visitor. the clothes brought tend to be functional, the shoes comfortable, the choices practical. your identity remains firmly, in your own culture, which for me is as an american. and even if i try to 'fit in' or to not appear as a tourist, i'm okay with it.
moving to uganda was another opportunity for a cultural identity crisis. when we packed up to move, i was admittedly very practical in what i brought. i remembered the unpaved roads, the lack of sidewalks, the rain and the dust. i remembered being hot, but also needing to think about culturally appropriate summer wear- ie: not running around in short cut-offs. i paused to think about how american women are often perceived in non-western cultures. i even paused to consider my title- "missionary"- which connotes long dresses or skirts, button down blouses (all hand-me-downs of course), no make up, hair in a bun. i went through my closet and i purged. and i wrote about it- parting with items of identity- the faux-fur vest, the silvery velvet plush cropped jacket, a chocolate brown twist dress, tall black boots, a miniskirt. little pieces of glam that i loved to wear. i didn't go out and buy new stuff, i didn't search for missionary-esque hand-me-downs, but i did try to pack wisely, non-ostentatiously, thoughtfully.
2 weeks after landing in uganda, i felt that feeling again. that cultural identity crisis. we were driving into town and i was looking around at my new 'home', my new where-abouts and i was seeing that ugandan's like to look good. they like to dress up; hair done, heels on and they like things that sparkle. even on sidewalk-less dirt roads they look good- even with no electricity they look good. i was going to town in my jeans and flip-flops, hair thrown up in a bun. not only that, but as i caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, i saw sun spots and wrinkles and some gray hair. i was feeling old and like i'd let myself go. i was feeling like 40 had caught up with me. and i wasn't liking any of it. so i re- assembled my hairdo in the side mirror and fished around in my bag and applied the 'rich red' lip gloss my sister had given me before we moved and thought about the cutest outfit i could put together with the clothes i'd brought.
then i shared my sentiments with mike- more in a monologue than a conversation- but still, i'd expressed how i was feeling.
i think mike, who was driving, responded with "you look great." or "i don't know what you're talking about" after a quick glance my way. then a moment later he looked back at me. "did you drink some juice? i think you have some pinkish orangish stuff on your mouth."
now guys- if your 40 year old wife tells you she feels like she's not all that- if she is feeling like she's reached the peak and is now on the other side- it's time for massive affirmation. it's time to pull out the stops and even if you have to, lie to her, just do it. don't mistake her lip gloss for a juice spill.
by the time we got home i needed to talk about all this- about this more superficial side of our move. i was frustrated by my self limited wardrobe options, and my lack of ability to either be just who i am or to really think about how most people dress in the capital cities of most of the world, and not be so worried about it.
but the other part of all this was a sudden awareness - that nobody really cares. nobody is looking. nobody is noticing what the heck i have on, or whether i'm wearing lipstick or drank an orange juice sloppily. here i'm a distinct minority-i belong to a bizarrely invisible - but completely non-anonymous group. i am a muzungu. i stand out - just because of my pale skin. i get stared at because i'm so obviously a foreigner.
so i'm finding that place of identity again. i'm an american who has moved to uganda
today it was cool after a night of rain and i abandoned my flip flops, dug in the back of my closet and found my silver scaled mermaid wedge heels that had yet to experience the red dirt. i grabbed my '60's retro 3/4 length sleeve jacket and an over-sized pageboy hat, reapplied the lip gloss and headed out the door- feeling much more like me.
